


In the Absence of Justice

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, First Times, M/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 03:30:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the death of a serial killer has lasting consequences for Blair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Absence of Justice

## 

In the Absence of Justice

by Meredith Lynne

Author's homepage: <http://www.trickster.org/radiofree/>

DISCLAIMER 1: They're not mine. 

DISCLAIMER 2: I was in a pretty strange mood when I wrote this; it's not what you're used to from me, but I hope you like it anyway. If you do, please let me know; the only thing my ego can't take is silence. =) 

THANK YOU: To Nita and Rrain and Maygra for Beta Reading and ego-boosting! 

ARCHIVE: Yes, under Drama/Romance, with email address, as "In the Absence of Justice". 

Comments are much to be desired! I can be found at boojum@trickster.org ... =) 

* * *

In the Absence of Justice  
by Merry Lynne 

Another night, another nightmare. 

Blair didn't think he could face it. He wanted to sleep -- God, how he wanted to sleep -- but sleep brought dreams and the dreams were uglier every time he closed his eyes. His hands shook as he poured hot water into a cup for tea, and he spilled it, hissing as the scalding liquid touched his fingers. He braced his hands against the counter, eyes wide but unseeing. With an effort of will, and slow, steady breathing, he brought the tremors under control. 

It had been three weeks since Harold Kresh had invaded his life, destroyed it, and died. Only Kresh hadn't just died. He'd been killed. Shot in the chest, at point blank range, with Jim Ellison's gun. Which would've been okay, if Jim had been holding it at the time, but he hadn't. Jim had been unconscious, possibly dead, on the floor of little Jenny Parker's living room. Blair had been the one who pulled the trigger. 

Five times. 

He'd wanted to be sure. 

The moments spent waiting for the ambulance, his hand pressed into the hole in Jim's leg to staunch the flow of bright arterial blood, were as intense as they were surreal. The ride to the hospital was a hazy jumble of wailing sirens, chemical smells and sharp voices as the EMT's worked over Jim's body. That was how he'd thought of it: Not Jim, but Jim's body. Preparing himself for the worst. 

His first coherent memory of the hospital itself was filled with the mingled smells of coffee and cigars. Simon had thrust a steaming Styrofoam cup into his hands in the waiting room, and forced him to drink it down. It was bitter and strong and hot, burning his tongue and throat. Only Simon's hand, warm and firm on his shoulder, had held Blair together as they waited for news of Jim's condition. He'd wavered between fear and despair, barely able to breathe, until a doctor had approached with Jim's chart and a reassuring smile. 

The news was good. The bullet had passed through Jim's leg cleanly, only nicking the femoral artery. By applying direct pressure to the wound, the doctor said, Blair had very likely saved Jim's life. Simon's hand had tightened convulsively on his shoulder then, and when Blair had looked up he'd found gratitude and respect mingled with relief in the Captain's dark eyes. That, and a suspicious moisture Simon had tried to pass off as an allergic reaction. 

They'd let him sit with Jim in the recovery room. Not that they could have kept Blair away with anything less than an armed force. He had listened to the monitors and waited, holding the hand without the IV and trying not to squeeze too tightly. It had seemed like hours before a slight pressure around his fingers had roused Blair from silent, shaken contemplation of the wall across from him. 

Blair had looked up into blue eyes as dazed as his own. Jim's hand had tightened once -- briefly, fiercely -- and then relaxed as his eyes closed again. 

Blair had let go of Jim's hand then and stumbled out into the hallway, shudders wracking his body as relief shattered his fragile control. Jim was alive, Kresh was dead, and Blair had killed him. Reaction had set in with a vengeance, wrenching silent, dry sobs from his chest until Simon had found him there and wrapped him in strong arms, offering a kind of paternal comfort that had both calmed and strengthened him. 

An inquiry as thorough and rigorous as a first grade spelling test had cleared Blair of any wrongdoing, citing self-defense as the motive and skipping blithely over the issue of the other four bullets he'd emptied into the man's chest. Blair had ended a spree of savage murders and saved the life of one of Cascade's finest police detectives; he could've tied Kresh to a chair and shot him in the head without fear of significant reprisal. 

Officially, the City of Cascade was proud of the Civilian Observer who'd acted with extreme courage and ingenuity. There was talk of a commendation. Unofficially, the Mayor was thrilled with the young man who had saved them the cost of what could have been a lengthy trial. Blair's credit would be very, very good for quite some time to come. 

The detectives of the Major Crimes division had little to say about the incident, but the term "Hair Boy" seemed to have completely vanished from their collective vocabulary. And within a week, a new desk had been moved into the bullpen and set up next to Jim's, complete with phone, computer and nameplate. Blair Sandburg, Civilian Consultant. No one had claimed credit for it, and Blair had never asked. 

And so in the end, when the case was closed and the paperwork turned in, everything had turned out just fine. Better than fine, in fact. 

Except for the nightmares. 

~ ~ ~ 

"Sandburg." 

"Yeah, Jim?" 

"Exactly how long do you think it takes a spoonful of sugar to dissolve in hot water?" 

Blair looked down at the cup of tea he'd been stirring for...well, quite some time, given that it had been hot when he started and was now merely tepid. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Sorry," he said quietly. 

His eyes flicked up as he heard Jim rise from the couch and make his way toward the kitchen, still using one crutch to support himself though he no longer needed it all the time. Blair watched his progress with a clinical eye, pleased to see Jim putting pressure on the injured leg without wincing. A part of himself Blair could never turn off wondered idly about rapid healing as an extension of Sentinel abilities, while another part just drank in the sight of his partner with a desperation that was quickly becoming familiar. Blair had come so close to losing him, had thought for a time he *had* lost him; now he felt compelled to observe, to commit Jim Ellison to memory. 

Just in case. 

"I'm sleeping on the couch tonight," Jim said, standing just behind him. 

"There's no need for that, Jim," Blair said calmly. He took a sip of his tea, frowned, and turned to put it in the microwave. "I have a handle on this. You just worry about your leg, okay? I'll worry about my head." 

Jim reached out and took the mug from his hands, setting it back down on the counter. "There *is* a need. You're not sleeping. You look like the fifth day of a four day pass, Sandburg. You go to class like that, you're gonna scare your students straight into business school." 

"Thanks," Blair said, trying to fake a smile. "I think you're cute, too." 

Jim ignored the joke. When Blair thought about it, it wasn't that funny anyway. "You're having nightmares," Jim said. "About Kresh." 

There was little point in denying it. Blair simply nodded, and leaned back against the counter to wait for Jim's reaction. 

"You didn't have any choice, Blair," Jim said quietly. "Killing him saved us both." 

Blair laughed, and was shocked at the note of hysteria in the sound. Jim was too; his eyes grew wide with surprise, then narrowed with concern. "Sorry, Jim," Blair said, trying to lock down the panic rising in his chest. "You're just way off. I'm not sorry I killed him. If ever a man needed to die, it was our friend Harold." 

"Then--" 

"I'm sorry I didn't make it *last*," Blair clarified, his eyes very bright. Images flashed through Blair's mind, little girls with blonde hair and bright, pretty eyes. The 'before' shots. And then the others, the pictures he wasn't supposed to see. He'd found them in Jim's desk, while looking for his laser pointer. Bodies torn and bloody. So very young. "He skipped out," Blair explained, fighting to maintain his composure. "He got off easy. I wasn't even trying to kill him, Jim. I wanted him to hurt, but my aim was a little too high." 

Jim nodded slowly. "That's not an uncommon reaction to this kind of thing, Blair." 

"You think? Because I didn't just want him to go to trial, you know? I wanted somebody to hurt him the way he hurt them. The way he hurt *her*." 

*Her*. The last one. The one whose name he couldn't say. 

The shaking started again, and this time Blair couldn't stop it. 

~ ~ ~ 

God, that it should come to this. That Blair Sandburg, *Blair*, should be standing in their kitchen shaking with rage and grief. Not over killing a man, but over killing him *clean*. 

Blair shouldn't have been involved in the Kresh case. Jim hadn't wanted him anywhere near it. He knew his partner was tough, and stronger than he looked, but this was too ugly, too dark. Shielding Blair from it had been instinctive, unplanned -- and in the end, completely unsuccessful. Seeing those pictures made it personal for Blair, and when they'd brought Kresh in for questioning, it had been unmistakable. Blair's hatred had been palpable, direct, and totally unrestrained. 

Kresh had loved it. He'd *fed* off of it. And when he'd been released hours later, the DA unwilling to move without further evidence, Kresh had stopped in front of Blair and delivered a quiet message only the three of them could hear. 

"The next is for you," he'd said. 

And that night he'd slipped away from the surveillance team, and killed again. Jenny Parker, age three. 

With Blair's Guidance, Jim had tracked Kresh to the Parker house. He'd left Blair outside to call for back-up and gone in on his own, knowing each minute wasted could be the last minute of the little girl's life. 

But it had been too late before they even arrived. 

Jim had surprised the killer on his way out, and a fight had ensued. Kresh, untrained, had emptied a gun at him. Every shot but the last one had missed; that one had taken Jim down just as Blair entered, drawn by the sound of gunfire. 

And though Jim hadn't seen it, he could picture it clearly in his mind. Kresh had gone for Blair just as Blair had gone for the gun that had slipped from Jim's fingers. 

Blair had won. 

Five bullets and fewer seconds later, Kresh was dead. 

And Blair was right: That was the worst of it. Kresh died too fast, too clean. There should have been a trial that exposed the man to the world for the soulless bastard he was. There should have been humiliation and pain for him, as there had been for the little girls he'd murdered. As there had been for the parents who'd listened, bound and gagged in their bedrooms, while their daughters were brutalized. 

As there had been -- as there still was -- for Blair. Brilliant, gentle Blair, who had done in self-defense what he'd wanted to do for better reasons and with less mercy. Blair, whose heart would bear the burden of Jenny Parker's death forever. 

It had been far, far too clean. 

Jim set his crutch aside and took a halting step forward, putting himself within reach should Blair need him. He was unsurprised when, a heartbeat later, Blair closed the distance between them and clutched at Jim's shirt, taking the comfort offered without reservation. Blair rested his forehead against Jim's chest, breath coming in deep, shuddering gasps as he struggled for control. Jim closed his arms around Blair's shoulders and pulled him into a fierce embrace. His every instinct cried out to do battle with the enemy who had wounded Blair so deeply, but the enemy was dead and forever beyond his reach. 

So Jim did the only thing he could. He held Blair against his chest, in the safe circle of his arms, and prayed for healing. 

For both of them. 

~ ~ ~ 

Blair awakened in slow stages, gradually becoming aware first of hard warmth beneath his cheek, then a hand tangled in his hair, cradling his head. He was on the couch, stretched out next to Jim, who even in sleep still sheltered him. Jim's shoulder served as a pillow, and his arms held Blair close. 

The loft was grey and quiet. Blair shifted slightly, angling his head toward the balcony, and saw the first slow brightening of the sky. It would be dawn soon; Blair became aware that he'd slept for hours. 

And that the sleep had been mercifully free of dreams. 

The pattern of Jim's even breathing changed, and the arms around Blair's shoulders tightened. "You're awake," Jim said, his voice husky from sleep. 

"Just barely," Blair answered. 

"Nightmares?" 

"No. I think you scared them off." 

Jim nodded, and fell silent. The hand in Blair's hair withdrew, then returned to stroke slowly over the soft curls. 

"How long do you think it's going to take?" Blair asked softly. How long until he could bear to say her name? How long until the sick feeling in his stomach went away? How long until his passion for life returned and displaced the gut-wrenching desire to bring Harold Kresh back from the dead just to kill him again, slowly? 

How long until he felt like Blair Sandburg again? 

He felt Jim's sigh, and then the gentle press of lips against the top of his head. "I don't know," Jim said. 

Blair closed his eyes, letting the touch settle into him. It didn't reach the cold, hard knot of pain in his chest, but it warmed him. "Not long," Blair said finally. It was more hope than fact, but hope was more than he'd had the night before. 

Jim's hand stilled in his hair, gathered it together at the nape of his neck and gently tugged, tilting Blair's face upward. Even in the dim, gathering light of dawn, Blair could see the question in Jim's eyes. 

Unable to speak, Blair tried to put the answer into his own. 

Slowly, with such caring and compassion that it nearly broke Blair's heart, Jim leaned down and kissed him. His warm lips were a fleeting pressure, barely felt before being withdrawn. A moment of surprise passed quickly, leaving Blair with a sweet, strong sense of wonder. Not precisely desire, but close kin to it. A forerunner. 

Blair stretched up, flattening his hand against Jim's chest for leverage, and found his friend's mouth with his own. Lips opened and tongues met gently, tasting one another for a long, dizzying moment. When Blair pulled back, easing out of the kiss and resting his cheek in the hollow of Jim's shoulder, he could hear his friend's heartbeat thundering beneath his ear. Jim's arms tightened, pulling Blair more firmly against his chest and cradling him there. 

"Didn't expect that," Blair said finally, one hand smoothing Jim's T-shirt over his chest. 

"Did you mind?" 

Blair chuckled softly. "Did it seem like I minded?" 

"No," Jim said, letting out a pent-up breath. "Not really." 

A silence fell between them again. Blair relaxed against Jim's warm, solid strength, and closed his eyes. "I'm going to lie here and sleep and pretend I never met Harold Kresh," he said after a moment. "If that's okay with you." 

"That's only going to work for so long," Jim said quietly. "You can't ignore it forever--" 

"I know," Blair interrupted. He slid his hand up Jim's chest, and higher, to trace the strong line of his jaw. "But it's a start." 

"And this?" Jim said, capturing Blair's hand and stilling it. 

Blair tightened his fingers around Jim's, holding on to them like a lifeline. 

"This is a start, too," he said. 

* * *

End In the Absence of Justice.

 


End file.
